Queen Elizabeth
by fateofawakening
Summary: Elizabeth Richardson, a girl with an amazing memory for words. Having just moved from America, she's new to London and ends up moving in with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. But why does it seem like murders are popping up... around her? What does she have to do with anything? She's just here to pay the bills. *Original plot, set after TFoR but without Mary*
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"That makes three girls in a row." John put down the newspaper, reaching for his cup of morning tea as he squinted at Sherlock, who was busy at the computer. "Sherlock, are you even listening?"

"Hmm? Listening? Of course I am."

"Really?" John put down his now-empty cup. "What was I just talking about, then?"

"What does it matter, John? I'm busy, can't you see?"

John rolled his eyes. Elizabeth chuckled from the corner; the two men never bored her. "He's not listening, obviously, so let's just leave him alone. I'm surprised Scotland Yard hasn't called yet."

"Yeah, well, they don't like to call for help unless they really need it," said John.

"Just like a bunch of puppies waiting for their master," Sherlock murmured from where he was typing away on his computer. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow; Sherlock was quite possibly the rudest man she had ever met. And she had met plenty of rude men before.

A phone tinged somewhere in the flat. "I think it's yours, Sherlock," said John.

"Yes, yes, get it for me, will you?"

"Why can't you get it yourself?"

"I'm busy, like I already said!"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and stood up. "Where's your phone?"

"Either in my coat pocket or charging on the desk."

Elizabeth could very clearly see the iPhone lying a mere couple of feet away from Sherlock, on the other desk to his right. But she stood up anyway to get it, knowing that Sherlock would just ignore it unless someone else read the message aloud to him.

"It's from your – "

"Delete it."

"I refuse. He seems to think something's up – and that it's _important_. He says – "

"Delete it."

Elizabeth lowered the phone and looked at Sherlock. "No."

"By God, just delete the stupid message!"

"He says: 'The girls are Americans. You had better get on the case before I do something about it. – MH'."

"Americans?" John piped up. "Is he talking about the murdered girls?"

"Obviously," Sherlock muttered, before slamming the lid of his laptop shut. "Give me my phone."

Elizabeth did so, smiling because Mycroft had once again gotten his rather _difficult _brother interested in a case. She had not been in Britain for long, and she had just recently become affiliated with the Holmes' and their associates, but she already loved every minute of it because now there were two people who were even more strange and brilliant than she had ever been.

Sherlock strode to the door and grabbed his long coat off the hook. "Let's go," he said. "Lestrade just texted me."

"Right on time," Elizabeth chirped, following him out the door as John scrambled to catch up with them. "You know, I can't wait to meet him. He must be an incredible man if he can put up with you all the time."

Sherlock stopped walking mid-step and spun around to face her. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious. Then he frowned. "Never mind; that was most definitely an insult."

"You're a genius," she said sarcastically, to which he said cheerfully,

"I know!"

"They've all been killed the same way." Lestrade handed the file folder to Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows. John sighed and accepted the folder. "Knocked out first and then stabbed through the heart, relatively small blade."

"Knocked out," Sherlock repeated. "You said they were knocked out."

"There were bruises on all three victims," Lestrade explained. "Definitely strong enough hits to knock someone out. Unless they're trying to mislead us, why would anyone bother giving a dead corpse bruises?"

Elizabeth stood to the side, thinking. _They're all American_, Mycroft had said. A sudden chill ran through her body; was this supposed to mean anything to her? She was American, after all, from the States, and –

"Elizabeth, are you coming?"

She looked up to see Sherlock striding out the door, John gazing at her questioningly. "I apologize," she said, quickly following them, Lestrade bringing up the rear. "Where are we going?"

"To investigate!" Sherlock called back. "They've prepared a crime scene for us!"

"Wonderful." Elizabeth usually said something like that with sarcasm, but this time, she was genuinely excited. She hadn't seen a real crime scene in ages, and she was most definitely looking forward to it. Lestrade left them to fetch his police car as Sherlock called for a taxi.

"We can squeeze three," said John, gazing at the backseat of the cab. Elizabeth could tell by his body language that he didn't particularly like the idea of sitting in the middle, and so she strode past him and squeezed in next to Sherlock.

"You play an instrument," said Sherlock, out of nowhere, as John slammed the door shut and rattled off the location of the crime scene to the cabbie. "Not a string instrument, because there aren't any calluses, but perhaps a wind instrument. Well, that's what I would think, except that when you tap your finger against a desk, your fingers are curved beautifully – pianist, for sure."

"That was random," she said. "But yes. Pianist. I used to be a flautist as well, but, uh, complications arose and so I quit during high school."

"High school," John repeated. "Oh right, American. Gotcha."

She smiled. "I went through college prematurely too, got my PhD in Forensics and Civil Engineering, and never really put it to use. Learned lots of stuff, though."

"I knew it was something Forensics-related," Sherlock muttered. Elizabeth frowned.

"No you didn't."

"I did."

"You did not."

"I did; do you doubt my skills?"

She blinked at him. "Clearly."

"Okay, children, break it up," John interrupted. "So what brings you to Britain, anyway? I've been meaning to ask you, but haven't really had the chance."

She was just wondering how to answer him when Sherlock spoke up. "It must be some sort of family matter. Personally, my guess is that you have family here, or that you were born here but raised mostly in America."

"Exactly," she said. "Family issues – close enough."

The cab slowed to a stop, and Sherlock handed the cabbie a few bills before the three of them climbed out of the car. Lestrade's police car was already parked a few metres away, and they hurried toward the apartment complex, climbing up the stairs to find the correct flat, yellow caution tape everywhere. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose; she had always found that stuff annoying and unnecessary.

"She's over in this room," Lestrade said, leading them through the flat. "I can only give you five to ten minutes, so work quickly."

"That's more than enough," Sherlock said, in his usual overconfident manner. Elizabeth and John were close behind the other two men as they strode into what looked to be her bedroom.

She was lying on her back on the cold, wood-panelled floor, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. Her blond hair splayed out under her head, traces of makeup beginning to disappear. She had on a formal-looking dress and a blazer, and was barefoot unless you counted the dark pantyhose she wore. From Elizabeth's best guess, she looked to be somewhere in her mid-twenties, not too far from Elizabeth herself.

And, of course, there was the bloody hole through her chest.

Sherlock had gotten straight to work, crouching down and touching little parts here and there. He took out his magnifying glass as well, examining the dead woman's fingers and bruises, as well as the stab wound. "John," he said, and the doctor approached him. "What do you think?"

"Just as they said, she appears to have been knocked out first. The bruises can't be more than four or five days old, and the stab wound looks to be around that as well. It's stopped bleeding already, so it definitely isn't fresh. But she's lying in a very natural position... perhaps too natural."

"Completely symmetrical," Elizabeth chimed in, leaning against the doorway. "And there's no puddle of blood on the floor, so the killer must have put her here after killing her. And – wait, who alerted the police to this?"

"It was an anonymous tip," said Lestrade. "I thought that was strange, too, but there was nothing we could do about it."

"What does that have to do with it?" John asked.

"You said it yourself; the murder was committed maybe a week ago. So why are we only examining the body now? The killer left her for a few days for some purpose before alerting the police to it, right?"

"Precisely," said Sherlock, standing up and putting his magnifying glass away.

"Have you found something?" Lestrade asked eagerly. Elizabeth watched Sherlock closely, as the tall man stepped back from the body.

"It's just as they said. The killer dragged her in here after having stabbed her somewhere else, and waited before calling the police. That suggests that there was some evidence that would have taken a few days to disappear; as for what, I don't know. She's got professional clothing on, but a dress rather than pants, so I'd say a secretary or some other desk job at a high-grade office. She's got on light makeup – the bare minimum, I'd say – and so she's not someone who cares so much about her beauty. In fact, the only piece of jewellery she's wearing is the ring on her right middle finger." Sherlock paused and spun around. "I'm sure Elizabeth can relate."

All eyes turned to her. Elizabeth frowned at Sherlock, but realized that he was right. "So the ring must have some sentimental meaning," she said, and he nodded, stooping down to examine it again. This time, she stepped closer, leaning over his shoulder to catch a glimpse.

It was a black ring, rather thick, with silver on the edges.

"But it's just a plain ring," said Lestrade. "How are you going to get anything from that?"

"Not scratched, so well-cared for," Sherlock murmured. Elizabeth only had to remember one of the rings hanging from her necklace before remembering something she'd done ages ago. She gently twisted the ring until a familiar symbol came into view. It was a silvery outline in the shape of the Batman symbol.

"How did you know that was there?" asked John.

"I used to something similar, back when I didn't want others to see," Elizabeth replied, absentmindedly tugging on her necklace. "See, you just have to hide the symbol on the outside of your finger, and nobody can see it from any angle."

"And if she hid it..."

"The most likely conclusion is that it represents a person," Elizabeth said, remembering her own high school days. "Someone she liked, perhaps, but she didn't want other people to know. I'd say a crush or an old friend. Maybe someone gave it to her."

"Look up all of her connections," Sherlock ordered, looking up at Lestrade. "We're looking for someone with a Batman-related nickname."

"Nickname?"

"Yes, of course, what else could it be?" Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "Elizabeth said it: a crush, most likely. But why a Batman symbol? Obviously, it's a nickname or an inside joke."

"Wonderful," Lestrade said, hurrying off.

"Well then, let's go," Sherlock said, briskly walking past them after Lestrade. "There's nothing more to see. Chinese, anyone?"

Elizabeth and John exchanged a glance before following after the "consulting detective," Elizabeth pausing just at the doorway and taking a final look at the dead woman. She strode back to the body and pulled off the ring.

Crudely engraved on the inside, as though the murderer had done it himself, were two words: _My Queen. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"'My Queen'?" John repeated, frowning. They were talking about the case over a rather exotic dinner of genuine Chinese food. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Elizabeth had snapped a picture and sent it to Lestrade, Sherlock, and John, so that they all had a copy, because it was definitely a strange lead in another direction. "So far, I have three ideas," she said. "I don't like any of them."

"I have nine," said Sherlock dreamily. "The most obvious one would be that she's referring to our actual Queen of England. But why would she do that? And the engraving is too crude to have been done at any shop, meaning that either she did it herself, or the murderer was leaving us a clue of some sort."

Elizabeth let the shudder run through her. Sherlock noticed, judging by the way his eyes snapped to her, but he didn't say anything.

"Of course, it's always possible that this 'Batman' person gave her the ring... hand-engraved to show sentiment, perhaps?" John suggested. Both Sherlock and Elizabeth gave him a small nod in agreement.

A phone notification went off. Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, squinting at the screen for a moment. "Ah," he said appreciatively, tapping the screen, "right on cue."

He read the message first before showing it to his other two companions. It was a text from Lestrade. _'Searches over social networks show that there was a man whom she nicknamed Batman, the oldest appearance of the nickname appears to be when she was attending Sixth Form. Andrew Kayne, we are heading over right now. Will text further details.'_

"Brilliant," Sherlock said, putting down his phone. "Pieces are already falling into place."

Andrew Kayne, as it turned out, was her ex-boyfriend. He claimed to have loved her at one point, but due to family matters, their relationship could not work out. "I can't believe it," he said, Elizabeth listening to his explanation over and over again on tape. "I can't believe she's dead."

Everything about this murder sent chills down her spine. That woman was so similar to Elizabeth that it made her want to throw everything down and hide in her room. It was almost like someone was foreshadowing her death – no, she wouldn't be surprised at all if someone was, indeed, doing such a thing.

"Elizabeth?" Sherlock called through the door. "Come out, I need the recording."

She momentarily considered ignoring him, but, remembering the detective's strange ways, decided that it wasn't a good idea, in case he broke down the door or climbed in through the window or something. So she padded over to the door and stuck her head out.

"Goodness, you look awful," Sherlock said promptly, and she glared at him, handing him the tape recorder. "The case is bothering you, clearly; go take a shower. Helps with the nerves."

"Where's John?" she asked, not seeing the older man anywhere.

"Buying groceries!" he called back. She sighed; poor John was always running errands here and there, because he was too nice to order Elizabeth to go and because Sherlock was the real detective and rather misused his authority when it came to these things. So Elizabeth trudged upstairs and took a shower, as Sherlock had suggested.

There were only two bedrooms in the flat, and despite the fact that the man never even used his bedroom, she refused to just take Sherlock's. So she had moved into their flat and put all her things in one corner of Sherlock's bedroom, and slept on the couch at night. It greatly annoyed Sherlock when he was trying to "concentrate" on some "experiment" and she was lying there on his couch. But despite the fact that even Sherlock himself had rather forcefully "suggested" that Elizabeth take his bed, the blonde refused; it was his bed, and she was not about to take it, especially when they barely knew each other. She was really just there to help with the rent, anyway. And she also suspected that Sherlock found her interesting in some way, or he would have put up a fight against her moving in.

After having showered and changed, she came down the stairs, wringing her hair out and splashing little drops of water everywhere. John winced as the spray caught him right in the face. "Quit it," he said, and she merely smiled, patting John on the shoulder as she reached over to help him put away the groceries.

Sherlock began to play the violin, spinning around in circles and closing his eyes as he danced, the melody beautiful and waltz-like. Then suddenly, he stopped in the middle of a phrase, freezing in his exact position. Elizabeth turned to watch as he simply stared off into space. It wasn't unusual for him to do something like this, she knew, but it worried her sometimes because she always wondered if one day he would travel too far into his own mind and get lost.

He snapped out of it abruptly. "Elizabeth," he said, frowning at the wall opposite him. "Come here and do a dance."

"I can't dance," she said immediately, to which he threw her a disbelieving glance, looking her up and down.

"You've taken dance lessons since you were little; of course you know how to dance."

She didn't even bother asking how he knew that and approached him warily. He remained completely emotionless, his violin and bow still up in the air.

"Directly in front of me," he said, and she did so. "Now pretend we're dancing together."

He began to play again, and she rolled her eyes, stepping off and taking the lead easily. It was almost like they were dancing at some formal ball, except for the fact that they weren't touching. It was a strange concept, a dance without any physical contact, but Elizabeth knew that Sherlock's eye was keen enough to zone in on her next movements, and so they stayed in sync.

"Stop," he ordered, and she froze in her spot. "Okay, now go away; I'm busy. John, shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"But you were about to."

"Stop bickering like little kids," said Elizabeth, as Sherlock turned away and penned down some notes on the manuscript paper lying on his desk. She sat down in the armchair across from Sherlock, the one that John usually took, and crossed her legs. "I mean, you could all be doing something actually _productive _right now, rather than fooling around or playing the violin."

Sherlock seemed confused. "This _is _productive," he said. "Obviously, I'm composing a song, and you're distracting me. Go away."

"What about the case?" asked John from the kitchen. "Surely you haven't solved it yet?"

There was a pause. "No. I'll get to that in a moment, after I'm done composing."

She narrowed her eyes at the tall man's back. He didn't seem to notice, and began to play again, a melody filling the air and carrying through the apartment.

A phone began to ring, but Sherlock ignored it. Elizabeth let it ring out, knowing that it was Sherlock's. But it rang again, immediately afterward, and so she stood up and went to get it. "It's Lestrade," she said, glancing at the caller ID. Sherlock ignored her. She rolled her eyes, used to his antics by now, and swiped her finger to pick up the call. "Hello?"

"I need Sherlock to come." Lestrade sounded almost out of breath, as though he had been running. "We've found another."

"Anything different?"

"Not sure yet. Can you hand the phone over?"

Elizabeth lowered the phone from her ear. Sherlock was still playing, probably knowing what the call was about already. "Sherlock," she said, but he didn't respond. "Sherlock!"

He continued to ignore her, spinning in circles.

"Sherlock Holmes! Oh, for heaven's sake..." She sighed, tapping her forehead for a moment before the name popped up. "William! Pay attention!"

That made him freeze on the spot and turn to her. She held out his phone. He took it, still eyeing her. "What's the address?"

Elizabeth went to fetch her coat as Sherlock danced and jumped for joy at the new development of a new victim. Coming back down the stairs, she found Sherlock and John standing by the door, waiting for her, and she hastily slipped on her heeled boots before following them outside.

"Taxi!" Sherlock called, spotting one driving down the road, and for a moment, Elizabeth wondered if Sherlock had the magical ability to attract taxis; she had never seen a cab drive past him, and she had never had to wait longer than five seconds for a taxi to drive by when she was with Sherlock.

She stared out the window as the car drove, lost in her own thoughts. American. Queen. America didn't have a queen, so it was a reference to something else. Queen of England? Some boyfriends liked to call their girlfriends "queens."

It didn't make any sense, either way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

She was sprawled out in a red armchair across from the TV, one hand dangling off the side of the chair. She couldn't have been any older than twenty-five, and she was dead, killed exactly like the others.

"She was killed while watching the telly," John remarked. "Would it have to do with anything on the telly?"

"Can't be," said Sherlock, stepping back from the body. "Again, there's not enough blood, so the killer moved her. And what does that make you think of?"

"Um... a moving company? Taxi?"

"Think, just _think _for a moment!" Sherlock paced around the body in circles. "The murderer _wanted _us to see her. He's moved the bodies, all of them, and he's trying to tell us something. Where were the previous bodies found?"

"Kitchen, bathroom, attic, bedroom, and now living room watching TV," Elizabeth recited off. "That's literally all the rooms in the house."

"TV – oh, right, I keep forgetting. American. Gotcha."

"Exactly," Sherlock said, as though John hadn't interrupted. "Wait, how did you remember all that?"

"I read about it in the papers." She shrugged. "I remember what I read. How do you think I remember your name?"

"Shut up. That's not important. What's important is that bodies have been found in every room of the house, they're all American girls in their late twenties, and none of them have left any sort of note – except this one."

"A note?" Lestrade leaned forward. "Where?"

Sherlock pressed a button on the DVD player. The compartment slid out, a disc inside. "Here," he said. "She has cable; the remote's right next to her hand. The remote for the DVD player is on the cabinet, too far for her to reach comfortably, so the last thing she watched was the telly. But the DVD player's been moved in front of the cable receptor, suggesting that she had put something in there but hadn't watched it. One can only assume that she knew there was someone after her and therefore left a clue of some sort."

"Or she could've been about to watch a movie," John said. Sherlock gave him "the look" again.

"The disc doesn't have a title."

"Watch it, then," Lestrade said. Elizabeth shuddered and subconsciously stepped closer to Sherlock, who was standing closest to her. "This could be the most important lead we've had."

Sherlock blinked, as though weighing his options, before sliding the compartment back in and pressing _play_. Elizabeth reached over and turned the TV on.

The dead girl popped up on the screen. _"My name is Amanda Jenkins. If you're watching this, then that means that you've discovered my body and that I'm dead. I've read the papers and I'm not stupid, and I know that I fit all the requirements. So I created this, just in case I'm the next one. One of my friends witnessed one of the murders, and she's now in hiding – I won't tell you where, in case this falls into the wrong hands, but to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, perhaps you can figure it out. Ask around and see; your best friend might, brother of mine perhaps, and if there's one, see to it. My Queen."_

The screen went black, and Elizabeth hurried to turn it off before it creeped her out any further. "She's smart, but not that smart," said Elizabeth. "She repeated one of the codes used before."

"Codes?" asked Lestrade. "I didn't hear any code."

"_Ask your brother and see Queen_," Elizabeth recited. "Skip code, every fourth word. I know that there was one of these used by Moriarty back when he kidnapped John."

"_How _did you know about that?" asked John. Elizabeth shrugged.

"I read about it, I guess."

Sherlock was already busy tapping away on his phone, most likely texting his brother. Elizabeth's phone buzzed, and she pulled it out, to see a message from an unknown number.

_'__Photographic memory? – SH'_

_ '__Not quite, only with words'_

Lestrade strode forward and picked up the disc carefully, placing it in a plastic bag. "Was there anything else from that video?"

"Look her up," Sherlock said, not glancing away from his phone. "Look up Amanda Jenkins, and see if there's any other link. We, on the other hand, will further investigate the message. I'm sure dear Mycroft will have something to say about it."

He turned up his collar and strode out of the room. Elizabeth smiled as John hurried to catch up with the consulting detective. "I'll keep them out of trouble," she said to Lestrade, who nodded.

"That would be great, thanks."

"You withheld evidence? From a crime scene?"

"I was deciding what to do with it until you _conveniently _popped up... my _dear _brother."

"I don't care if you're the British government, Mycroft! Withholding evidence is a crime, not to mention the fact that you're setting us back!"

"I believe I just informed you that I was about to - "

"Shut up, both of you!" John finally exclaimed, and Elizabeth was quite taken back by his boldness, seeing as Mycroft was not an easy opponent. However, both men fell silent to stare at him. He rolled his eyes. "You're both acting like little boys fighting over a toy. Figure it out like men, please."

"You're absolutely right," said Mycroft, nodding. "He's acting like a little boy."

"Oh, please, Mycroft!" scoffed Sherlock, throwing one leg over the other as he slouched in his armchair. "_I'm _acting like a little boy? Have you looked in the mirror recently?"

"And there they go again," Elizabeth muttered, rolling her eyes. "Sherlock, what's done is done. What's important is that we actually get around to _receiving _this important evidence that Mycroft has _so helpfully _withheld from the rest of us."

Sherlock did a sort of pouting thing, before silently returning his attention to Mycroft, whom Elizabeth was sure was secretly annoyed that he'd just gotten told off by a little blonde girl. As though he could read her thoughts, Mycroft gave her another look-over before saying, "You look twenty, not twenty-eight."

She beamed. "Thanks!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes before leaning forward. "The girl who witnessed the bedroom murder is currently hiding at the residence of one of my more... _trusted... _colleagues. I assure you that she is safe, and you should be cleared to question her this afternoon."

"May I see the file?"

Mycroft and Sherlock stared each other down for a few moments before Mycroft sighed and handed over a manila folder from one of the many piles on his desk. "You have precisely ten seconds," he said. "I'm breaking rules as is."

Elizabeth began to count mentally, aware that Mycroft was tapping his finger for every second gone by. After six, Sherlock practically threw the folder, and Elizabeth nearly dropped it out of surprise as it flew right at her chest. Realizing that he wanted her to take a look, she scanned through the contents, trained after so many years of reading and remembering, and had gotten through the girl's basic information and background and was halfway through her witness report when Mycroft snatched it back.

The room was silent for a few moments. It was only then that Elizabeth realised that Sherlock somehow knew about her rather... unusual memory abilities. It wasn't photographic, unfortunately, but she remembered exactly what she read and often the script it was written in. Mycroft's files, of course, were all typed up in a classic Times New Roman font, which made it easier for her to read. She'd gotten through four pages within four seconds, which was a feat that even she was proud of.

"Well?" asked Mycroft, finally. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, his fingers touching under his chin as though he were praying. Elizabeth had come to recognize it as his "thinking" face, having seen it during just about every case. She had seen pictures about it too, and he'd briefly popped up on the television a couple of times, always with that same hand-steeple-praying stance. She kind of liked it, but she didn't know why.

Sherlock breathed out, slowly. "I didn't get to the witness report."

"Then why did you give it to Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth glanced up; surely Mycroft already knew. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, his clear eyes urging her on. "Description of the man was average height, very short dark hair and formal clothes, seemed to be average weight for his height, and other than the gun, he also carried a pocketknife, which he used to carve the words into the victim's ring. As we thought, the words "My Queen" were engraved by the murderer, not a potential lover. You also mentioned in the report that she hid under the bed, and was terrified the entire time because she thought she would be easily spotted."

"Obvious, surely?" asked Mycroft.

"Transparent."

"Sorry, what?" John asked. Elizabeth frowned.

"I get it," she said slowly. "The victim was carefully arranged on the ground. Next to the bed. She would've been caught, easily. So why didn't she?"

John let out a sigh, having finally caught on. "He knew she was there and purposely let her watch."

"So the only question that remains is _why_," Sherlock said, standing up and beginning to pace. "Why kill all these girls with no link except for age and cultural background, and then purposely allow himself to be seen?"

Elizabeth was more concerned with another aspect of the case. Formal clothes? Like Sherlock and Mycroft dressed on a daily basis? No, there couldn't be many murderers dressed like that. And very short dark hair? Average, yes, and common, but the descriptions also matched that of a certain criminal...

"And yes, Elizabeth," Mycroft said, seeing her frown. "Yes, we have entertained the possibility of Moriarty's involvement. But he's dead; shot himself in the mouth, supposedly."

"And that's why you haven't further investigated along that line," Elizabeth murmured. "I see."

"He wanted to be found out," Sherlock said, halting right behind my chair. "Now, who does that remind you of?"

"Why does everything always point to Moriarty?" John groaned. "He's supposed to be dead!"

Elizabeth frowned. "So is Sherlock."

John couldn't find a proper retort to that, and so eventually, Sherlock decided to amuse us all by ordering Mycroft to take him to his colleague's residence _this instant_, because he had a case to solve, and because Mycroft was being completely unhelpful and extremely dull. If Mycroft was angered by Sherlock's blunt words, he didn't show it, simply calling for a car to take the three of them to Ireland's residence.

The three were silent on the way there, accompanied only by the driver, who made no effort to start up a conversation. As they turned the corner of a street, Elizabeth's eyes widened at the sight; this Ireland woman was absolutely _loaded_.

"What?" Sherlock grumbled. "Are you sure we're in the right place?"

Elizabeth, who had just caught sight of the house number, nodded and said, "The address matches up."

"How would you know that?"

Elizabeth gave him a look. "Because I read it in Mycroft's file?"

"Of course you did," muttered John, as Sherlock simply nodded. "Why do I feel like I'm the only average, normal person here?"

"Oh, John, you're the nicest one here, so that should be a superpower all in itself." She patted the doctor on the shoulder, lowering her voice. "And you're certainly a lot more fun to be around than Sherlock."

"I can hear you," Sherlock grumbled, as the car came to a stop.

"You were meant to, _obviously_."

Sherlock was the first one out of the car, clearly fed up with her antics, which caused her and John to start cracking up as they watched him put up his coat collar as he approached the door to the grand mansion.

"You're brilliant," John said, as they climbed out of the car in pursuit of Sherlock. "You may just be the most brilliant woman I've ever met."

"I hope you say this sort of charming phrase to your girlfriend," she said, grinning as he frowned. "Some women want to be prized for their intellect too, you know. Not just their beauty - beauty's overrated."

"Good thing you think that way, because you and beauty really don't go together." Sherlock's cold eyes were staring into her icy blue ones; if they had a staring match, she wasn't sure who would win. And she'd said those words, but it didn't mean that she didn't like to think herself as at least _averagely _pretty. Sherlock, as always, was painfully blunt and probably irritated by what she'd said in the car.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, seeing the smile slip off Elizabeth's face. "Apologize!"

"Why should I? 'Beauty is overrated', remember? So who cares if she's ugly?"

"Thanks, Sherlock," she mumbled, turning away. "Really boosted my self-esteem there."

The door opened right as Sherlock and John were about to get into a heated fight, revealing a middle-aged woman dressed in a maid's outfit. "Holmes, Watson, and Richardson," she noted, looking them over. "Mistress will be with you shortly, if you would just step this way..."

She led them down the hallway and into a small sitting room, where they all sat down on the long couch. It was amazingly soft, and Elizabeth sank into it, already worn out from hanging around Sherlock. She was acutely aware that he didn't sleep very often, and she made no effort to change that, but she often wondered how he managed such a thing when she was already tired and she'd just started in this "business."

She didn't realise she'd started to drift off until Sherlock's shoulder jerked and she snapped out of it, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and trying to hide the fact that she had been resting her head on Sherlock's shoulder. How _embarrassing_, even though she knew Sherlock wouldn't care.

She looked up and found the reason for Sherlock's jerk: Mycroft's colleague, Ireland, was standing before them with all the grace of a beautiful, proper lady. She had brown hair, pinned up, and her eyes were a pretty shade of green, reminding Elizabeth just a little bit of Sherlock himself. She had high cheekbones and was clearly fit, but not underweight, either. She didn't seem to be wearing too much makeup, and wore a relatively modest outfit consisting of a red knee-length chiffon dress... that actually had sleeves, to Elizabeth's slight surprise.

She reminded Elizabeth a little too much of Irene Adler, the only woman who had ever caught Sherlock's attention. Suddenly self-conscious - even more so than usual - Elizabeth found herself going through her own features. If Irene Adler was Sherlock's ideal woman, then Elizabeth was rather the opposite. Irene had dark brown hair, blue-grey eyes, high cheekbones, and a sexy, sly, intelligent personality to match. She was bold, daring, and lustrous, and she stood out in every way possible.

Elizabeth was blonde, with deep blue eyes and average features. Her lips were much too thin, and her eyes too big to be considered pretty. She was naturally skinny, but she had practically no bust at all, and definitely no sex appeal - not that she'd ever particularly looked for any. She was averagely smart, and her only power play was her memory. It wasn't even photogenic.

"The younger Holmes brother," Ireland remarked, her green eyes flicking from one person to the next. "You two look nothing alike, I must say. Come on to the back; I've informed Melinda that you're on your way."

"Melinda?" Sherlock asked, confused. Elizabeth sighed.

"The witness. Melinda Atkinson."

"Ah." Ireland led them through a maze of hallways and doors and rooms, before finally stopping in front of a large mirror in the hallway. She pulled it aside, entered a code, and a secret door opened. The three of them stood there, all of them thinking the same thing. Elizabeth was the first to really look at Ireland again.

"Ireland?" she mused, closing her eyes and trying to remember the words on the page. What was her name? What was it?

"What's wrong?" asked Ireland, sounding genuinely confused.

"Nothing," Sherlock said abruptly, ducking into the small, hidden room. "Come on, John."

Elizabeth bit her lip, feeling a little left out, but she had remembered. "Ireland Adler," she said quietly, and the woman nodded. "You're Irene's sister?"

"Was it the looks?" she asked. "We can look very alike and yet very different, I'm told."

"I read it somewhere." Elizabeth shrugged before ducking into the room after the two men, Ireland bringing up the rear. "I'm just glad you work for Mycroft, and not like... well, like your sister did."

Ireland shrugged noncommittally. "My sister was who she was," she said. "I'm me, I guess. We've always been different and yet very similar."

"Stop talking!" Sherlock snapped, not having overheard any of their conversation. "We're here to interview a witness, not to talk each others' heads off!"

Elizabeth had had enough of Sherlock for one day and retorted just as rudely, "Well, we can't all be sociopaths, can we?"

The room went silent, including the girl sitting on the small bed in the corner of the room. Elizabeth kept up her glare, her heart pounding and fists clenched, ready to punch the consulting detective. She had started to grow used to him, yes, but that didn't mean he could go around spitting out nonsense as he pleased!

Sherlock turned his body around to face her. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife, and Elizabeth suddenly wondered if she'd gone too far.

No, of course she hadn't. "You call yourself a 'high functioning sociopath,' Mr. Holmes, but you're nothing but a man, dressed in a suit and ironed pants - that _I _ironed, thank you very much - who flips up his coat collar like some kind of cool kid. I don't care if you can't feel emotions, as you say; I don't care if you're not sentimental or if you choose not to get involved in relationships. But you need to stop being so f*cking rude all the time!"

The last part had been shouted, and she stood there, slightly out of breath, watching as Sherlock's expression barely flinched. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it, but it buzzed again, and then again, and then again.

"Oh God, what is it now?" she grounded out, exasperated, angrily pulling out her phone.

_'I'm outside, meet me now, I have important matters to discuss with you. - MH'_

"Sorry, duty calls," she said sarcastically, ignoring the dead silence of the room. She pushed open the small door. "Maybe when I come back, little baby Holmes will have learned how to crawl."

She angrily stormed outside, somehow finding her way out of the maze-like house, and found a black car parked just outside of the gate. Mycroft's assistant, a young woman with a pretty face and lip gloss on, rolled down the window and beckoned to her. Elizabeth slipped into the back seat beside her, closed the door, and buckled her seat belt as the car began to move.

She sat there, silently fuming through her nose, staring at nothing. Sherlock Holmes was _insufferable_; half the time, she wanted to punch him into the next universe, and then she would see him deduce something and act all happy like a little kid at Christmas, and she would find herself unable to stay angry.

Maybe Mycroft could give her advice.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Ah, Elizabeth," Mycroft said, as she was ushered into his private office. "I know I just pulled you away from a witness interrogation, but I've decided that you would serve a better... _purpose_, in a different way."

"Aw, thanks," said Elizabeth, her frustration with Sherlock causing her entire attitude to flip a one-eighty. Punk Elizabeth was starting to make an appearance. "Because I just _love _to be used like a little freaking toy."

Mycroft frowned. "Something's happened," he said slowly, his dark eyes going over every inch of her. "Fight with Sherlock?"

She gave him a very sarcastic look and a thumbs-up. He nodded.

"Well, this should take your mind off of it. Your memory should serve very useful in your new line of work - if you choose to take the job, of course. I assure you, it's very well paid, and since you're already involved anyway, you may as well just go ahead and accept."

"Pray tell me, Lord Mycroft," she began, but then saw the look he was giving her and sighed. "Yeah, okay, Mycroft. What's this important job I need to accept?"

"I'd like you to become one of my agents," he said, and a sort of electric flurry shot through her. It didn't go unnoticed. "Starting right now, you will be one of my undercover agents, Elizabeth Richardson. You hang around Sherlock all day, so you'll get a pretty good view of the London battlefield, and if you'll accept my offer, I'll have you start on reading right now."

"Reading?"

"Files, of course," he said dismissively. "I have millions of files on people and things, and everything in between. I could easily get someone to sort through them into order of relevance, and that, I'm sure, would boost your success rate, as well as my brother's."

"You want me to read all of your files? All of your _top secret _files on... well, everything? Aren't you worried I might go rogue? Or missing? Or spill these secrets if I get tortured?"

"Of course not, Miss Richardson." His smile was just as creepy as Sherlock's, if not more so. "I have a feeling that you will make a very trustworthy agent. Now, will you take the offer?"

Elizabeth didn't even have to hesitate. "Yes."

He clapped his hands together. "Excellent," he said, and pressed a button on the intercom. "Anthea, I need you to bring in a mobile, a G41, and a pocketknife. Print an ID for Miss Richardson. Oh, and inform Stephen that I need to see him immediately."

Elizabeth frowned, thinking it over. "Why do I need a cell phone?" she asked, waving her phone in front of his face. "Mine's perfectly fine, the last time I checked."

Anthea walked in with Mycroft's requests, depositing them on his desk. "Will that be all?"

"Yes, Anthea, thank you."

He held out an iPhone to me; it was exactly the same as the one I had: the new iPhone 5. It was black, as was mine, and I pressed the Home button to see a brand-new start-up screen.

"Keep this one a secret," he said. "Use it for communication in these networks; I've had my people program it so that it's completely untraceable. If you make the two look identical, Sherlock won't notice which you keep out, provided that you choose a password he cannot guess. And this is a G41; standard issue, you should be able to hide it in your inner coat pockets. The knife is flatter than most, so you should be able to sneak it into the side of one of your boots."

The door swung open again, and Mycroft looked up.

"Perfect timing," he said, as an unfamiliar man with sandy hair stopped beside me. "Stephen, I need you to take a team and sort out the files in order of relevance. Have them delivered here."

He nodded and hurried off, and Elizabeth had to admit that she was impressed by Mycroft's efficiency. She spent the next five minutes learning how to hold and use the gun, and Mycroft stowed it away safely inside of her coat pocket. She also found a convenient fold of fabric to put the knife in, and Mycroft didn't even blink an eye when Anthea came in with her brand-new ID card and at the same time offered to sew in an extra pocket in Elizabeth's boot. She accepted the offer, examining her ID card.

It had her driver's license picture on it, along with her name, social security number, and an ID number that she suspected only made sense in Mycroft's agency system. It also had on it all the information that could be found on a regular license or ID, like her birthday, hair colour, eye colour, and other little things like that. She frowned at the picture; it made her look ugly. And fat.

She spent the rest of the afternoon reading away, with her uncanny ability of going through a twenty-page file in a single minute. By the time six o'clock rolled around, her eyes were strained, she had a slight headache, and she had gained so much information about both friends and strangers and random people she knew that she just wanted to go home and sleep.

It hit her with a jolt that her "home" was 221B Baker Street, where Sherlock and John were most likely waiting. What had she said? _"But you need to stop being so f*cking rude all the time!"_

Well, their reunion would surely be pleasant, she mused, as Mycroft dropped her off with strict orders to report back the following day to finish up all of the "personal files," before she would move on to the "impersonal files," and then eventually just onto random. At this point, she couldn't even remember what she had known before and what she'd just learned; it seemed as though it was just all there, like a big huge mess.

She pushed open the door to the flat to find Sherlock sitting in his chair as usual. If he noticed her, he didn't show it, keeping his eyes closed and his fingers steepled. She quietly hung up her coat and headed for Sherlock's room, wanting nothing more than to collapse on the huge, soft bed.

"Elizabeth."

She froze, like a child caught doing something naughty. "Yes?"

"Where did you go? I can practically - ah, of course. _Mycroft. _What did he want with you?"

"None of your business," she tried to snap, but it came out softer than she'd intended. She blamed it on her exhaustion. "I need to go to sleep now, so excuse me."

"You haven't eaten dinner. John's getting takeaway right now."

"Sorry, but since when do you care?" Her eyelids were getting heavy. Why were they so heavy?

"You didn't eat lunch, either. For a woman your age, you are within the healthy weight zone for your height. I have read that women tend to be more conscious about their weight than men, but Mycroft's a prime example of breaking _that _stereotype, so you should probably just come and eat. No need to go on a diet just to look good."

"Shut up," she snapped, her voice harsh this time. "I'm not on a diet. I've had a really long day, and I'd like to go to sleep without anybody bothering me. So just stay where you are and eat when John gets back."

She disappeared and shut the door before he could say any more, not even bothering to change out of her street clothes and making sure the gun was safely buried at the very bottom of her toiletry bag. She collapsed onto the bed, mentally swearing that if Sherlock dared to go through any of her items, she would kill him. Well, Mycroft would kill him, but what was the difference, really?

The first thing she did the following morning - making sure that Sherlock was still in the living room and that he wasn't going to barge in - was set up her new phone. Mycroft had given her a specific password that Sherlock would never guess, and that's what she used for both her phones (because, knowing Sherlock, he would be able to tell if she typed in a different password than usual). There was already one message waiting from Mycroft:

_'Report by three p.m. - MH'_

It was only nine in the morning, so she got up and changed, making sure the gun was still where she left it, before sleepily padding into the living room. Sherlock was sitting in his usual chair, his eyes closed, but Elizabeth was about ninety-eight percent sure that he was not asleep. As she'd thought, his eyes flickered open as soon as she put a mug of steaming coffee in front of him, black with two sugars as he liked it, and he looked at her with a strange expression on his face.

"What?" she asked cautiously, sipping from her own mug of coffee. He spontaneously stood up and squinted his eyes at her, as though seeing something he hadn't seen before. Her heart began to beat faster, wondering if he could deduce what Mycroft had asked her to do.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

She blinked. Lie, or no lie? Which was easier? "Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"I was tempted," she said casually, sitting down on the sofa. She was a very good liar when she wanted to be. "But no, I decided that I liked you a little better than I liked him."

"Pity," said John, walking into the kitchen, "we could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

Elizabeth blinked in surprise, as Sherlock scowled. John paused on his way to the kitchen and explained,

"That's what he said to me when _I _was offered money by Mycroft."

"Oh," said Elizabeth, nodding. "William, the unpredictable brat."

"Stop calling me that," Sherlock ordered, but it sounded more like a whine to Elizabeth. "John, make her stop."

"John, he knows _your _middle name, so it's only fair that you know his first name." Elizabeth smiled sweetly at both men, one scowling and the other shining with glee. "William, William, William, William - "

"Shut up!"

"One more - " She took a deep breath. " - William."

The first two files Mycroft had given her the previous day were on Sherlock and John, whose files were much larger than many of the others, nearly forty pages of single-spaced, double-sided, neatly typed information. She now could recite their full names, birthdays, background, all known relatives, medical history, and everything they had been up to in, well, pretty much their entire lives. She now knew the full story behind Sherlock's fall and how he survived, as well as the fact that John had a terrible thirst for the battlefield. Mycroft documented _everything_, and she wondered if these people knew they were more or less being stalked.

Her anger with Sherlock had also cooled, and so the two of them spent the morning quizzing each other about trivia, using an app on Sherlock's cell phone. Out of the three of them, Sherlock had the most random information stored, but Elizabeth could remember things in greater detail, therefore making the two of them equally matched. She also knew things about television and general entertainment that Sherlock classified as "dull" or "boring," thus giving her another advantage. John knew the most about the medical field, but all in all, it was Elizabeth versus Sherlock.

Elizabeth won.

With a pouting Sherlock playing the violin and an irritated John who was fed up with Sherlock's antics, Elizabeth offered to make lunch if there was anything edible in the fridge. She found some eggs, a bag of thumbs, frozen bread, expired milk, and a cell phone that had clearly been worn out. It was still working, surprisingly, and the screen lit up to reveal a lockscreen.

She glanced behind her and made sure none of the boys were paying attention to her before entering in S-H-E-R, which she knew was the password to Irene Adler's phone. She couldn't remember if she'd read it in Mycroft's files the previous day or if she'd read it in some article, but she guessed it was Mycroft. She also knew that Sherlock had kept the phone, but why was it in the fridge?

_'Why is Irene Adler's phone in the fridge? - E'_

She slipped the phone into her pocket and shut the fridge door, letting out a sigh. "Should I go get takeaway or do you want me to buy groceries?"

"Go easy," said John. "We'll call for takeaway."

Her phone buzzed. _'Make sure the condensation does not ruin it, take out the battery and let it fully dry somewhere cold and dry. Most likely he threw it in there out of frustration. - MH'_

_'He still has feelings for her? - E'_

_'My brother is not supposed to feel, but judging from his actions and his keeping of her phone, my guess would be that he was very entertained by her intelligence. Perhaps he was also attracted to her, but that I am not sure of. - MH'_

Even Sherlock Holmes had a heart, but Elizabeth highly doubted she was in it. She had also read about Sherlock's supposed "attraction" to Irene Adler in Mycroft's files, but it was stated that his true feelings remained unknown. Her phone buzzed again.

_'Take the phone out of the fridge. - MH'_

_'Already did. I'm taking it to Mrs. Hudson's - E'_

"I'm going to go talk to Mrs. Hudson for a moment," she said, as John began to dial for food. "Be right back!"

Mrs. Hudson was happy to see her, as always, and didn't protest or ask any questions when Elizabeth asked to keep the phone in her flat. She highly doubted that Sherlock would notice its disappearance, especially since she never saw him use it at all.

Now, the only question was, why did Sherlock still have Irene Adler's phone? And it hadn't always been in the fridge, which meant that he had charged it recently and then thrown it in there.

Maybe Mycroft would know.

They had discovered one more.

Elizabeth, as usual, accompanied them to the crime scene. The woman was again American and in her late twenties, and Sherlock had figured out that she'd been moved from her initial murder spot to a corner of a hallway. There was writing on the wall this time, like a riddle that didn't make any sense.

"'Let us dance together like flowers in a storm, like God in Heaven. All hail the Queen!'" Elizabeth read aloud, the words committing themselves to memory. "Does Mycroft know about this?"

Sherlock froze. "Mycroft? Why would he be relevant?"

"Because he's in the British Parliament, obviously," said Elizabeth. "Don't you think he and the Queen know each other? Maybe he has answers."

Sherlock was very clearly irritated. "Why does everything have to include Mycroft?" he hissed, examining the body. "If you're so eager to please him like the little goldfish you are, go jump into his fishbowl and don't regret it."

She was silent, knowing that she couldn't reveal how close he was to the truth. Instead, she avoided John's worried gaze and stepped back, pulling out her phone and quickly typing him a text just in case.

_'Drop a hint that they need to investigate the Queen's personal matters. It may not be relevant, but my guess is that it most likely is. - MH'_

"Anything?" asked Lestrade, and Sherlock straightened up.

"She seems to be average. Steady boyfriend, steady job, steady income, no reason at all to die. The note was clearly not written by her, so the murderer must be leaving us a clue of some sort."

"Maybe it really is about the Queen," Elizabeth suggested, worming her way back into the conversation. "I know it's weird, but since when are things like this normal?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**_**please note: I have changed the entire lineage of England's royal family in order to suit the story; I also didn't want to in any way tarnish or affect any views on the royal family. Therefore, I've changed it so that Elizabeth II, the current Queen, had recently passed away in an accident, along with her successor Prince Charles, and so her successor is his eldest daughter, Anne. I know it's not really the case but I didn't want to drag in Prince William or Kate Middleton. Just to clear up confusion.**_**

After stopping by Mycroft's for a file he wanted her to read on the Queen, she rejoined the others at Scotland Yard, where Lestrade had put officers to work finding data. Her appearance did nothing to faze them, and they didn't even seem to notice her as she came in.

"She was appointed Queen two years ago," Sherlock was saying as she quietly shut the door to the meeting room behind her. "Married to Timothy Goldstein as of 1989, and they have two daughters, Emily and Rachel. Criminal record is mostly clean, except for a speeding ticket when she was twenty-four and two cases of public disturbance, but it all happened before she was twenty-five, so it shouldn't have any relevance."

"Then what are we looking for?" Lestrade asked, clearly frustrated. Sherlock looked away.

"I don't know," he admitted. "There doesn't seem to be anything out of place."

"That's not true," Elizabeth said quietly, causing both men to turn and stare at her. "Her first serious boyfriend was when she was eighteen years old - Richard Swanson. They dated for five years in secret until her mother found out and banned him. That's the only thing that seemed strange out of her entire profile - where did Richard go? He went to America, but after that, his trace just disappeared. And she never mentioned him again, marrying someone else and eventually becoming Queen of the country."

"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked immediately, doing that scrutinizing gaze again. "What else are you hiding? Do you know who's - "

"Your brother told me." She smiled at his distraught face. Lestrade and John seemed to be having a hard time resisting laughter. "I told you it was a good idea."

"And does Mycroft have anything on Richard Swanson?" asked John. Elizabeth shook her head.

"I guess he's not important enough. But right now, he seems to be possibly relevant to the case."

"I'll contact the FBI in America," Lestrade decided, before pausing and glancing at Elizabeth. "Unless Mycroft has other plans?"

Right on cue, her phone buzzed, practically revealing to her that the room was under surveillance. "Apparently, he's already got agents on their way to America. He'll check back in with us when he's found."

Sherlock's nose was turned up, like he'd smelled something foul. "Mycroft, mind your own business."

Her phone buzzed. "'This _is_ my business'," she read aloud, smirking at Sherlock's irritation. "Sherlock, maybe we should just leave it, like he says. I mean, he _is _the British Government, after all."

Sherlock sniffed. "He's been wrong before. He doesn't always succeed."

"No, of course he doesn't," said Elizabeth, acutely aware that the room had fallen silent, the sound of men typing being the only sound left. She guessed that they were all very interested in seeing someone shut Sherlock Holmes down, and she wondered if it was perhaps a little mean to give them that. "'Mycroft then received a text from an individual who was assumed to be James Moriarty, proving that his Conventry-based plan had become revealed to the terrorists whom the MoD was attempting to deceive. It was later made clear that Sherlock had unintentionally given away the answer to Irene Adler, who most likely used the information to contact Moriarty. After this incident, Sherlock - '"

"Shut up!" Sherlock roared, making them all jump. He took a breath and turned away, looking out the window. "It was a mistake. Mycroft made a mistake in letting me get involved; I made a mistake in continuing to be involved. But he also made a mistake in letting you read those files. After all, you just quoted them to everybody in the room, most of whom you do not know."

Her second phone buzzed. _'As long as you do not give away vital information. Nothing in the Top Secret categories. - MH'_

The files had been organized through several headers: Background, Medical History, Basic Documentation, Relationships, and Top Secret. What she'd just recited had been pulled directly, word for word, from the Basic Documentation section. Sherlock's Relationships section had been quite entertaining; Mycroft had every single relationship jotted down, from John to Moriarty to Elizabeth herself. It had held many more enemies than allies, and was significantly smaller than most others'.

Sherlock, most likely seeing the look on her face, sighed. "He's fine with it, isn't he? John, let's go. We have work to do."

"No we don't," said poor John, frowning as Sherlock strode past him. "Sherlock, Mycroft has it under control - "

"I'm not going to America!" he called over his shoulder, causing both John and Elizabeth to sigh. John glanced at Elizabeth and motioned toward the door, but she just pushed him out and shut the door, acutely aware that Sherlock was pissed at her and hadn't asked her to come along - not that she'd expected him to, either. Lestrade shook his head at her.

"Why do you stick around him, when he's so much ruder to you?" he asked. "John's his friend, and he treats him as such, but you... well, he brushes you aside despite the fact that your aid could be a clear advantage."

"Thanks, Lestrade," she said, smiling warmly at the Detective Inspector, who gave her a small smile in return. "I think it has something to do with the fact that without him, I'd be rather bored, you know. I've never minded that much in the past - not having anything like _this _to do - but I met him when I was younger and what he wrote down kind of just stuck, like everything else. So imagine my surprise when I learned he was right here in London!" She laughed briefly, knowing that nobody else knew this story. "I helped him solve the case he was puzzled about, and then I realised that what he did was not normal... but I liked it, I suppose. It's interesting."

"You met him when you were younger?"

"Oh yes," she said, glancing up at the corner of the room where she suspected Mycroft had hidden his camera. "Even Mycroft doesn't know the story, because it isn't in his files. But my father had taken me to visit London that summer, when I was sixteen. He was fairly young, but didn't look too different from how he does now, and I happened to see him work out a case as he walked down the street - talking to thin air, it seemed. So I followed him into a coffee shop, where I wrote down a recent murder scheme that had occurred in America, and slipped him the paper. He wrote down the answer and I collected it when he left."

"Let me guess," said Lestrade, "he solved the entire case with only the details you'd given him. In under twenty minutes."

"Exactly." Elizabeth giggled. "And you know, with my memory thing, I just always remembered it. I don't think he remembers me, though; I was another little interest in his boring day."

"Well, there's Sherlock for you." A phone began to ring, and Lestrade excused himself, stepping outside to take the call. Elizabeth glanced down at her own phone - the Mycroft one - to see a new message from the man himself.

_'Don't worry; it's being added to the files right now. - MH'_

"He's got it," Elizabeth said two weeks later, jumping up off the couch and sending a quick text to Lestrade, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't bother. "Mycroft's got it. Let's go - oh, Lestrade's meeting us there."

John was on his feet and followed at her heels. "Shouldn't we wake Sherlock?" he asked as she started down the stairs; Sherlock had fallen into another one of his stupors where he retreated deep into his own mind.

"The last time somebody did that, he nearly killed them," she said flatly, spinning around to face him. Seeing his confused face, she added, "Read it somewhere. Let's go."

She and John found one of Mycroft's sleek black cars waiting outside, the driver flashing Elizabeth his agency ID as they climbed in. The drive was short and quiet, and they were out of the car and heading up to Mycroft's office as fast as they could.

Mycroft was waiting for them behind his desk, typing something onto a sleek silver laptop. He looked up as they entered, giving them a smile. "Elizabeth, John," he greeted, and Elizabeth shot him a thumbs-up as she always did. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Oh, don't be silly," Elizabeth said, having gotten completely used to Mycroft's ways and his attitude; despite his cold appearance, she knew her boundaries were wider than they seemed. "You know he's in his Mind Palace and shouldn't be woken."

He eyed her for a moment. "Yes, of course you would know that. Take a seat, please. Would you like to read the report, or would you like to be briefed verbally?"

He already knew her answer, of course, and probably John's as well. "Report," she said, just as John said,

"Briefed."

They glanced at each other. Mycroft sighed. "Normally, I would just give Elizabeth the report and then fill you in as well, but in this case, I think it's better if they're words spoken rather than words read."

Elizabeth's curiosity was sparked. "Okay," she said, shrugging. "Whatever you say."

Mycroft folded his fingers together, a symbol that whatever he was about to say was dead serious and required some extra thought. Elizabeth suddenly felt bad for Sherlock; he was missing a lot. "Richard Swanson travelled to America - New York, specifically - and got a job as a waiter and later a bartender. He was granted custody of his daughter several years later - the mother was not documented, as the child was deposited on his doorstep one morning. He moved to California and got a steady job as a college professor, having received his PhD in Literature. He continues to lead a steady life as a middle-class citizen of the United States."

Elizabeth frowned; that wasn't right. "Then why did he disappear? How could he have been untraceable?"

Mycroft took a deep breath, as though the information was paining him. "He legally changed his name the moment he could. His child received the last name he filed under."

He was silent for too long. Elizabeth was getting nervous, for some reason. John spoke up. "And what was his name?"

Mycroft let out a long breath. "Alexander Richardson."

_No. _What? Was that a coincidence? A PhD in Literature, California resident... a daughter... just one. No.

"I don't get it," she heard John say, but she was more focused on Mycroft's dark eyes, which gave everything away. _"Yes," _they whispered to her, _"your father is involved. You are involved. What will you do, Elizabeth Richardson?"_

"Of course you don't," said Mycroft, switching his attention abruptly over to the doctor. "But she does."

"Elizabeth?"

"My name is Elizabeth Richardson," she stammered, staring down at her hands and wondering how she could have been dragged into this. "My father's name is Alexander Richardson. We live - I lived - in California. He has a PhD in Literature and teaches at Stanford University in San Francisco."

John's gasp of surprise did nothing to calm her racing heart.

"Elizabeth Swanson," Mycroft said quietly, and she realised then that that would technically be her real name. "Who is your mother?"

"She left when I was a baby," she said, before remembering the case they were on and why Richard Swanson - or her father, whichever it was - had had to be tracked down. "_Oh. _Oh my God."

"The previous Queen had released a statement saying that whomever was born first to the following heir would be the eventual heir to the throne, regardless of gender. I'm sure that she did not take into account the possibility of her daughter ever becoming the heir. As for whether or not Queen Anne is aware..."

"No way," John said quietly, staring at Elizabeth. The air had been sucked out of the room.

"Yes, of course," said a familiar, deep voice from behind them. He approached them, standing just behind Elizabeth's chair; she could hear his footsteps quite clearly even though the world was becoming a little dizzy. "Elizabeth Swanson, heir to the throne."

And then he laughed.


End file.
